


This, if nothing else

by shadowmaat, SLWalker



Series: Taking Flight [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: (a bit anyway), Beefcakes of Bespin, Gen, Illustrated, Respecting consent, Unabashed wingfic, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2018-12-18 13:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11875275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowmaat/pseuds/shadowmaat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: Due to circumstances wildly beyond his comprehension and control -- namely speaking, Mother Talzin attempting to reclaim her son with some Dathomirian magic -- sixteen-year-old Maul ends up with wings.  His master is considerably less than pleased and in desperation, Maul bolts for the only possible place he might be safe: The Jedi Temple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As with most things we do together, this story started because of an AU premise on Tumblr and then we started throwing bits back and forth and-- here we are. Enjoy. You can find us @sl-walker and @shadowmaat over there, if you want to know more, have questions, prompts or anything else!

 

He hitched the right wing up for the countless time, but it refused to carry the same as the left; instead, the wound in it cracked open again, and were he not already deeply, intimately familiar with that sensation, he might have winced.  There was no compromise, though; if it dragged, it pulled.  If he tried to keep it from dragging, it pulled.

The longest feathers painted a trail of blood.

Nine days ago, Maul had been living an entirely different life.

Seven days ago, he had run away from that life.

Four days ago, the assassin droids – six or seven of them – found him in the sewers.  That was when a blaster bolt hit the right wing, burning a deep hole in it that he couldn’t even see, let alone reach to treat.  He destroyed every one he could.

Left with no other options, he went up into the Underworld, but within five minutes became such a spectacle that he had to retreat into the darkest shadows available, drawing on the strength of his fear and the burning pain in order to cloak himself with the Force so that eyes glanced off of him, rather than looked directly at him.

Three days ago, he had managed to break into someone’s apartment through an alleyway entrance, long enough to grab food that he desperately needed but only barely wanted, long enough to attempt to clean out the wound buried in burnt feathers and broken skin, but it so turned out that most standard-sized ‘freshers didn’t work well with large feathered limbs and the best he could do was rinse it some.

Two days ago, crawling out of a hiding place with that wounded wing so stiff that moving it was bright, hot agony, he realized how much  _more_  trouble he was in, which should have been impossible in his situation – already wholly and entirely in trouble – but apparently was not.

One day ago, he managed to reach the area of the Jedi Temple.

He watched it through the night, dragging on the bitter dregs of strength, hidden in one of the large storm drains.  During the daylight, the heat was suffocating, rising up from the Underworld, beating down from the sun.  He tried to keep watch then, too, unwilling to give into sleep when he knew he might not wake up, or if he did, it would be to his Master’s face, but he kept sliding into some half-dream state.

Fear was the only thing lending him any manner of strength.  Even the pain wasn’t able to be channeled into anything, so sickening it was.  Rage would serve him no purpose here; it would only burn through what little energy he had left.

In his half-dreams, he wished Kilindi was there, until he remembered that he was the reason she was not; still, if anyone would have been able to tell him what to do, it would have been her.  She would not have found these wings to be bad, he didn’t think.  She didn’t think he was bad, even though he was.  Mostly, though, she would have talked to him and he would not have been alone in his fear.

He didn’t yet wonder why he killed her; Master had ordered no survivors.  Failure would have been punished severely, perhaps permanently.  He was rewarded with a place on Coruscant, in an old building; was rewarded with proximity to his Master and more proximity to a purpose.

But it wasn’t his Master he wanted now.  He wanted his friend.

When it wasn’t her in his half-dreams, though, it was Deenine; when it wasn’t the droid, _then_  it was his Master, his face twisted in ire, and the first time Maul realized that his Master  _didn’t_  know everything because he didn’t know how this happened or what to do with it, trying several different, inevitably painful things to make those wings disappear before reaching out with a snarl and saying–

–he was falling  
and  
falling  
and  
falling–

–until his eyes snapped open, searing pain and the stench of infection sharpening his senses again as his wings tried to stop the nonexistent fall, smacking feathers against duracrete and making him gasp for air, almost gagging.

He thought he could not get much lower.  Hiding in a storm drain, staring at the Jedi Temple.  His enemies.  He wasn’t even wholly sure he knew why he was there.  He was watching for something.  He needed something, but he didn’t remember what it was he was after.

Another night fell.  He got onto the narrow ledge where the drain opened, used the good left wing as a blanket.  Drifted half-there, shivering cold and burning in his skin at once, every minute motion echoing pain.

He was tired; this, he knew with certainty.  This, if nothing else.

Sometime in the night, he opened his eyes, having not actually realized they had been closed, and caught sight of a figure leaving what looked like a nondescript bit of  _wall_ , at the Temple, ground level.  For a moment, Maul wondered if he was hallucinating it.  It was a person, who left a wall.

Maybe not real.

He watched the figure move away.  He didn’t close his eyes, except he did, and when he opened them again it was secondsminuteshours later and the figure was there again, coming back, carrying something in a bag.  Maybe not real; maybe a Jedi, instead.  Maul was here for something.  He wished he could remember what it was.

Were he anything like in his right mind, he would not have done what he did next.

He managed to push the grate out of the opening to the storm drain and crawled out, on his belly, fingertips clawing at the ground to drag himself along, the brush of the top of the drain past his wounded wing enough to make him lay there dry heaving, but having nothing to throw up.  When he stopped, the figure was at the wall again and then vanished like a ghost through it.

It was late and the area around the Temple was fairly quiet, and so he focused everything he had on the wall, the spot on the wall where the ghost or Jedi went, climbing to his feet, reeling, steadying.  Each step hurt and his vision kept fading at the edges.  Past dregs now; whatever he was using, he was borrowing and would pay for it later.

By the time he got there, though, it was just a wall.

Maybe not real; probably not real.  He leaned against it, trembling with fatigue or fever or both, reaching for the vanishing light ahead, on the other side, but it just faded and faded  
and  
faded  
and

his hand slipped down the wall and suddenly the wall was a door opening inwards, and he stumbled through it.

Now, there was a short span of hallway and dim light beyond it, and he wavered in place and thought about things in some abstract, delirious manner; no words, just meandering streams of semi-consciousness.  Was he in the Temple?  Or was he dying in the storm drain?

Or was he dying under his Master’s watchful, angry eyes?

He took a step, then another; tried to drag his wing up to its natural position of rest and felt more blood or worse run between feathers against skin, to be painted on the ground–

“This is restricted property,” a voice said, male, a moving shadow in the dim light ahead. “You can’t–”

It cut itself off with a sharp intake of air.

“What  _are_  you?” it asked, shock or dismay or something else, maybe not real.

Maul had no answer to that.  He didn’t know what he was anymore.  A half-fragment of a thought whispered across his mind –  _Compassion is their weakness; they won’t_ –

But then his knees went, quickly followed by everything else, and it was all out of his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padawan Kenobi snuck out of the Temple to get some birthday gifts for a friend but wound up with more than he bargained for while trying to return.

Obi-Wan Kenobi cursed himself as he made his way down through the abandoned corridors towards the “secret” exit from the Temple. He’d almost made it back to the populated sections when he realized he’d dropped part of his birthday gift for Quinlan and been forced to backtrack.

His foot kicked something and he bent down to retrieve the copy of  _Beefcakes of Bespin_. Force forbid anyone actually  _catch_ him with this contraband. Or the bottle of ambrostine strapped to his leg. And then he heard shuffling steps and caught movement ahead of him.

“This is restricted property.” He straightened, mustering as much authority as he could manage. “You can’t-”

And then he got a better look at the person- thing?- moving towards him and gasped. “What  _are_ you?”

He’d assumed it was another student, but he’d never seen like what was before him now; a black and red shape, crowned in horns, with  _wings_ dragging behind it. He was bare to the waist, revealing arms and a chest that looked like they were sculpted from bronzium. As he watched the creature- person- collapsed. Whatever caution he might have felt fled and he rushed forward to help.

“Are you hurt?”

It was a stupid question with an obvious answer; he could smell the blood and the stink of rotting flesh. The figure’s skin was hot to touch and his breath rasped, short and shallow. He could see charred flesh and feathers on one wing. Had someone shot him? What was he even doing here? The horns reminded him of a zabrak, but he’d never seen one covered in stripes before. And he knew they weren’t supposed to have wings.

Shoving the holorecording into his pocket he attempted to lift him. He was small and looked very young, but Obi was still startled by how light he was. Did wings mean hollow bones or was there more wrong with him than just the visible injury? Both? It was hard to see in the much in the dim lighting of this section of the corridor. Shadows pooled over the boy’s face, making his cheeks seem hollow. He brushed his fingers along one just to make sure it was an illusion.

“I- I’m going to carry you, OK? I know someone who can help.”

Bant was going to  _kill_ him. But there was no way he could leave someone this injured behind and he didn’t want to risk running to get the Guards. He kept up a steady stream of chatter, explaining everything he was doing to the unconscious boy. The question of what he was kept rattling around the back of Obi’s head even as he carefully loaded him onto his back, playing bantha for his rider. It was an awkward process, made even moreso by the wings which dragged on the floor leaving an obvious trail of blood. It couldn’t be helped, though. Not yet. He also tried to tune out the crackling noise from the blaster wound in the wing and the stuff that was oozing out of it. And the soft breaths against his neck. And the prick of a horn against his head. And the heat radiating off the smaller body.

“You’ll be fine, you’ll see. My friend Bant’s wizard with the medical stuff.”

It was, maybe, a slight exaggeration, but she was the best option he had. He commed ahead to warn her he was coming and then shut the device off before she could yell at him. He wasn’t surprised when she met him halfway, medkit in hand and glaring at him.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi, what in the name of all the Seas are you- what is  _that?_ ” Her bulbous eyes widened as she finally got a look at the person on his back.

“ _That_ is the reason I asked for your help. He’s been shot and it’s gotten infected.” Obi adjusted his hold, not quite panting. His new friend might be lighter than average, but after a long hike the weight still added up.

“When you said he had wings I thought it was one of your jokes!” She reached past him, gently caressing the red and black feathers. The boy twitched and hissed, fingers digging into Obi’s robes.

“We have to get him somewhere safe. Will you help?” Obi gave her his best puppy dog look.

“I- Yes, of course.” She gestured for him to follow. “But I’m still mad at you, Obi-Wan!”

Obi was about to reply when hands wrapped around his throat.

“ _Where am I?!_ ” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bant thought it was going to be a practical joke. It _wasn't_.

Bant liked to think she knew Obi-Wan well.  They had been friends now for many years, through trial after trial.  When he struggled with the rifts between himself and his master, she was there.  When she lost her own master, he was there.  When they needed a friendly ear and companionship without judgment, the blessing of silence, they most easily found that with one another.  When they needed to playfully conspire on things like Quin’s birthday–

She would never admit it to anyone else that  _Beefcakes of Bespin_  had been her idea.

But Bant still hadn’t seen  _this_  coming.

She had just been ready to sleep when Obi-Wan called her and informed her that he had a boy of unknown species with wings who needed medical help, and she honestly had thought it was a practical joke in the making.  But here Obi-Wan was, and here was a very wildly colored boy with  _wings_  on Obi-Wan’s back like a very large, partially feathered back pack.

She was already trying to think ahead of where they could go and what they could even do, though, when Obi-Wan made a noise that sounded like  _gack!_  and she turned back to just in time to see the formerly unconscious boy trying to choke Obi-Wan – while still being on his back, mind – and demanding to know where he was.  His voice hadn’t broken yet, as near-human adolescent male voices did, as Obi-Wan’s had not too terribly long ago, but it was a dry rasp anyway.

Bant shook off her shock.

“Let go!” she said, stepping back over to try to pry one of those hands off, minding her claws, while Obi-Wan did his best to avoid getting knocked in the head by a horn or three, all without dropping the boy on the ground.  Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be much strength left in him, because she peeled one entirely-too-hot hand away without much trouble. “We’re trying to  _help_.”

Bant wasn’t sure if it was that or just a lack of strength, but at least he stopped fighting for a moment, staring at her with wild yellow eyes, caught somewhere between a snarl and a surprised look, like he was just seeing her right that instant.

It was silent for a long moment, but for the sound of breathing, and then Obi-Wan said, “Well, if you’re going to follow me home only to try to strangle me, the least you can do is tell us your name.”

At first, it didn’t seem the boy was going to say anything; he stared at Bant, and then he drew his head to the side and stared at Obi-Wan in semi-profile.  "I don’t…“ he started, just barely above a whisper, still sounding a little angry but more just  _confused_.

"You’re in the Jedi Temple,” Bant said, and met that gaze when it turned back to her, drawing on all of her hard-earned steadiness and confidence in order to sound like she was in charge.  As well she should be, given what Obi-Wan had dragged her into!  "You’re safe, but you need help.“

"And a name would still be very useful.  A species wouldn’t hurt, either,” Obi-Wan added, just a little dryly.

“I can’t,” the boy said, the fierce look in his eyes fading, focus going drifty.  "I can’t, he will find me, I’m not…“  He tried to blink out of it, then repeated, ”…not…“

Bant opened her mouth to try to ask for clarification, but the boy just faded out again, chin on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

"I think this might be more than we can handle,” she said, after a moment, steadying herself and stepping around the two of them.  One look at that wing, and she said with a little tremble in her voice, “No, I  _know_  this is more than we can handle.  He needs more help than I can give him, Obi-Wan.”

It was a bad enough wound that Bant was pretty sure just on sight that they’d need at least one senior healer on it and medicine beyond anything in that medkit; that it would need treated before they could even use bacta on it, to deal with the infection and swelling.  She reached out to use her own healing touch just to try to ease some of the suffering he had to be in, but when she tried, she felt something off, some strange dissonance.

“Well, what should we do, then?” Obi-Wan asked, a note of anxiety creeping into his voice.

So it turned out that the Temple Guard – probably having found the blood trail while on patrol – made the decision for them.  "Stop there,“ one of them ordered, without inflection.

In the manner of his species, Obi-Wan paled; in the manner of her own, Bant felt her skin grow cooler, as if in preparation for a dive.

Hopefully, everyone would be too busy trying to figure out  _what_  the boy was to worry about the copy of  _Beefcakes of Bespin_ and whatever other contraband Obi-Wan had stashed about his person.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan and Bant get interrogated, Maul gets help, and Obi gets caught.

Being interrogated by the Temple Guards wasn’t an experience Obi-Wan ever cared to repeat, but at least they set priority on getting the stranger to the Healers Ward. He did his best to answer all their questions on the way, but it was obvious there were too many “I don’t knows” for their liking. The trail he’d left also meant that there would be one less way for restless padawans to sneak out of the Temple. If any of the others ever figured out it was his fault he was going to be in a lot of trouble. Well. More trouble than he was already in.

“We’ve commed your Masters,” the Guards said as they arrived in the ward. “They’ll be here soon.”

Obi-Wan and Bant exchanged a look, hers accusatory, his apologetic. His eyes, however, strayed to the figure on the gravstretcher. He trailed in its wake, leaving Bant behind.

Seen in better lighting the mystery person looked more chalky but still beautiful. That was probably just a side effect of the wings. Some kind of preconditioned reaction to see him as exotic. That and the markings on his skin, which were dazzling.

“Padawan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan jumped and looked up to see the head Healer giving him a severe look.

“Master Che! I can explain!” His thoughts spun as he tried to come up with the best story.

“It seems you’ve picked up Master Jinn’s bad habit of collecting strays.”

Of all the things to throw at him she  _would_ pick that. His cheeks heated. “It wasn’t like that! Uh, not exactly.”

“It’s lucky you brought him to us when you did,” she said, ignoring his fluster. “He’s in bad shape. I’m not sure how much longer he would have survived on his own.”

His worry shifted focus. “Is he going to be OK?”

“We’ll take good care of him. Now let us do our work in peace.” Master Che shooed him out of the doorway and into the waiting room. “Oh, and Padawan?”

He looked up at her. “Yes, Master Che?”

“You might want to do a better job of hiding your contraband.”

This time Obi-Wan was sure he could feel the blush all the way down to his toes.  _Beefcakes_  was escaping from his pocket again. He could also feel the bottle of ambrostine slipping lower.

“It’s not mine! I swear!”

Che was already gone. Unfortunately someone else had arrived.

“What isn’t yours, padawan?”

At the sound of Qui-Gon’s voice, Obi blanched, whirling to face him.

* * *

 

(a small addendum that doesn't fit anywhere else)

_They gave him a tray for the feathers, promising they’d be sterilized and returned to their owner later._

_Obi-Wan’s fingers combed through the feathers, locating the ones that needed to be plucked. He couldn’t quite hide his wince with each yank, knowing that there was a living, thinking person beneath his hands. Suffering. Even unconscious Obi-Wan could pick up the blurry edges of pain through the Force. He murmured reassurances as he worked, picking the minimum necessary for the healers to do their job. Most of the feathers either went on the tray or into the garbage if they were too damaged, but one of them managed to find its way inside his robe. He convinced himself that it was for research purposes. Or as a memento of his strange encounter. But it was also soft when he brushed it against his cheek and it was a deep ebony that matched the markings on the stranger’s skin. Research, though, that was all it was._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the nicest bed that Maul had ever been in, but he mostly wasn't awake enough to appreciate it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More context for this (and the last bit of the previous chapter) can be found [here](https://sl-walker.tumblr.com/post/162668291779/fifty-credits-that-obi-wan-got-punished-for).

 

The first thing that properly filtered in was the relative  _lack_  of pain.

There was a deep ache, like a torn muscle, but none of the bright hurt of before, the constant shard of it that had been his companion for days (weeks months years) which stabbed deeper with every motion.  By comparison, this was nothing; it wanted for nothing but stillness.

There was something Maul was supposed to be concerned about, but he couldn’t think of what it was.  Everything felt heavy; limbs, body, mind, eyelids.  All of it too heavy to move yet.  Something smelled sweet and soft and clean and there was the impression of light from somewhere, but he wasn’t sure where.

He waited for the suffering, sure it must be impending, but couldn’t summon up enough energy to care.

 

 

The next time he was aware of anything, past the lassitude, it was that even the ache was a little less; still sore, but less, not more, maybe his master was waiting for him to feel all right to make it worse when he didn’t but–

There was a boy.

There was something about him vaguely familiar.  Something else Maul was supposed to know.  He was sleeping in a chair with arms crossed and the sun through the window turned the short, spiky strands of his hair copper-gold.  Maul’s whole life was painted in hues of rust and shadow (except Orsis and the ocean and Kilindi) so the color fascinated him, the brightness of it, the– the cleanness of it, enough that the afterimage of the boy’s profile kept him company when his eyes closed again.

 

 

The third time, his head was some measure clearer, enough to feel a shot of  _fear_  at being somewhere unfamiliar, though the fear wasn’t sustainable, could not compete with every other factor of his current existence for long.   _The Jedi Temple,_  his mind supplied, and one wing was half-open, the bad one, and it didn’t hurt like it had before;  _not some strange half-hallucinated dream, then_ , both the wings and the Temple.

He squeezed his eyes closed tight and then managed to blink them properly open, still feeling heavy –  _maybe drugged,_ he thought – but not restrained.  There was a band of white across the leading edge of his wing and when he tried to flex it, the ache intensified, but still no where like it had been before.

“No, shh.  Be still, let the bacta do its work,” a voice said, again vaguely familiar, rising-falling notes in a lilting accent Maul didn’t recognize the origins of.  It took him a moment to focus to the middle distance; it was the boy, hair now more brown without the sun blazing through it.   _Jedi_ , Maul realized.  _Padawan_ , he amended, given the braid.

He flexed his hand, taking in the tube in his arm.   _Certainly drugged_ , he thought, but he had expended whatever energy he had managed to gather; he would worry about it all later, when he wasn’t so tired.


	6. Chapter 6

The meeting basically ended when Vokara Che folded her hands into the sleeves of her robes and said, voice smooth and calm, “He’s my patient.  He’s in my care and custody.  If you try, you will have to come through  _me_  first.”

Needless to say, the Council didn’t expect to hear that.

This meeting was called because overnight, they had acquired a living, wounded mystery in the form of what appeared to be a tattooed, winged zabrak, strong in the Force, whose signature was steeped in the dark side and whose physique suggested many long hours of physical training.

Reading a Force signature was much the same as visually looking at someone; it was noninvasive and for some Jedi, it came just as easily as eyeballing it.  Needless to say, the boy they had not yet gotten a name off of caused quite a bit of upheaval.  No one was saying the word  _Sith_  yet, but the fact that he had clearly been on Coruscant at least long enough to reach them yet had been undetected was enough to make everyone something they would deny was nervous.

It had taken most of the night to stabilize him and well into the morning to even figure out what _species_  he was – the best the computer could return was the subspecies of  _Dathomirian_ , _Nightbrother_ , which accounted for the majority of his genetic code absent the mutation which signified his wings – and it was only now that the senior healer felt it safe to leave the Halls of Healing in order to weigh in on the debate.

It was likely quite a long one before she had even arrived.  Saesee Tiin had suggested telepathically reading the boy in order to gain more information and they were deep in discussions of  _how_  when she got there.  The consensus seemed to be that identifying the boy and where he came from was more important than his consent to allow it.

First, she tried diplomacy: “He’s somewhere in his sixteenth year and shows signs of repeated injury prior to his current wounds.  All of his long bones and most of his ribs have been fractured and healed before.  He’s dehydrated and has signs of long-term undernourishment.  He came to us; I think it prudent to wait until he’s awake, coherent and not under stress before trying to find out more.”

Thus went another round of debate.  He was under their care and not yet a legal adult, nor did they have any idea of who would be considered responsible for him.  They still seemed to think that made reading his mind without permission within the realm of acceptability.

Next, she tried plain common sense: “If he  _is_  a Nightbrother, it means he was born a slave.  He might have still been one until he found his way here.  I imagine that when he’s able, it won’t take much to get his story.”

They didn’t really listen to that, either.  They discussed it, of course, but the tension in the room kept redirecting them back to the idea that they needed to know  _now_ , this  _instant_ , whether there was something darker and more sinister behind the boy’s appearance.

Finally, Vokara Che had enough and informed them that he was  _her_  patient, under  _her_ care, and that they’d have to come through her to get to him, mentally or physically.

For the first time since she arrived, the Council Chambers were silent.

It surprised her when Qui-Gon spoke up; he had been watching quietly from behind her, while his padawan sat vigil down in the Halls, and he had not yet weighed in on any of it.  Now, he did. “I stand with Healer Che.  Let him recover and speak for himself.”

The surprise was partly because he spoke at all – not because he was out of step with the Council – and partly because Qui-Gon was not above taking a morally ambiguous course if he felt he was right.  That he was willing to stand beside her and protect the boy’s sanctity of mind was unexpected, but she was grateful for it.

“You’re not going to take a wounded boy and wound him further,” she said, before turning and walking back out, on her way back to guard the boy bodily  _or_  mentally, if it came to that.  


But not before passing her hand down Qui-Gon Jinn’s arm in thanks.

In the end, they didn’t test her resolve.


	7. Chapter 7

It was dark, when Maul finally woke up enough to orient himself properly.

He didn’t move right away; just laid there quietly in the bed – _were all beds outside LiMerge this soft?_ – trying to piece together a fragmented memory, broken by fear and fever. He remembered that he was in the Jedi Temple; he remembered that there had been a boy with hair that was copper or gold or brown depending on the light. But little else.

His wing was still sore, but it was very faint compared to what it had been. He gingerly shifted the limb, moving it further up against the bed; it was still dressed in white across the leading edge and wrapped, the bandage fitted between long feathers and then shorter ones to just encompass the fleshy part, and he could smell the sweet-sour scent of bacta. But the tube was gone from his arm, at least.

When he focused past his wing, he jolted, adrenaline shooting through him.

Looking back at him, washed out in the dimmed, quiet night-lighting of this area was a twi’lek. Older, clearly, though by no means ancient. Her skin looked dark gray, until she moved and caught just enough light from the hallway to show that it was blue, instead.

“Hello,” she said softly, a smile turning up the corner of her mouth. “Or, maybe I should say, welcome back.”

Maul didn’t answer her, just watched her as he shifted; his head spun a little bit when he moved to sit up, edging backwards to the edge of the bed so that when he did, his wings would drape over the side.

It also put a little distance between them, too.

The twi’lek didn’t make any move to stop him, though she watched with lines at the corners of her eyes. _Concern?_ Maul wondered, not quite certain if that was the expression she was wearing; if it was so, then he didn’t know what she was concerned about. He didn’t want to attack her, just give himself room to move.

“I’m Master Vokara Che. The healer in charge of your care,” she said, her headtails surprisingly still and relaxed, given she was sitting this close to him. “You’ve been here over a full standard day. We managed to mostly heal that wound in your wing, though I’d like you to keep taking antibiotics for another week, given how severe the infection was and that it went systemic.”

She had a low voice, for a female of her species; there was a husky sound to it, as well, which was oddly not unpleasant. Maul just kept watching her, though after a couple of moments, he chanced a glance around to make sure there were no other unexpected people in proximity. His sense of the Force was still blurred, somewhat, though he found if he concentrated, it cleared marginally.

“You’ll need physical therapy, though; bacta might be able to heal muscle and tendons, but it won’t stretch and strengthen them.”

They sounded almost like orders, but not quite; at least, they didn’t seem to be suggestions. Nonetheless, the pitch of her voice didn’t change; didn’t become hard or biting or threatening. Maul hadn’t the first idea what to make of it. He wondered if they would let him walk back out of here, if he got up to do that.

Of course, that was when the realization hit that him doing so would put him back in his Master’s crosshairs.

He wasn’t aware of the way his wings pulled tighter against his back, self-protectively.

“You’re safe here,” Master Che said, tilting her head a little, hands folded in her lap. “No one’s going to hurt you. We’re curious about who you are and where you came from, but we can wait until you’re ready to tell us more.”

He had come to them. Had followed the boy with the copper-gold hair into this place. He had come here so that they could protect him, because he didn’t stand any chance at all in protecting himself. And they had healed him and this healer was not looking at him like he was a monster, only like she wanted to help.

He had no idea how to handle any of this, but he had come here for a reason. The alternative was so much worse.

His voice still quivered a little when he finally said, barely above a whisper, “Maul. My name is Maul.”


	8. Chapter 8

He slept for two days more.

Not all of it; it was broken by the healer who seemed to be responsible for him; she woke him up at regular intervals gently, making sure he ate something, usually changing the dressing on his wing every third time. After awhile, he realized that she did that so she would not have to disturb him as often.

Maul slept otherwise. He wasn't sure why he felt so bone-deep exhausted, except that maybe it was because he had been so badly wounded. It felt deeper than that, though; felt like it went right down into the core of him, an aching heaviness which made it hard for him to pick his head up off of the soft pillow.

He dreamt some; not something he usually did, or didn't remember if he did, but he was aware of it this time. Little fragments; words or images. Just flashes of things. Sometimes he woke himself up in a jolt, but sometimes he didn't.

Sometimes, he thought Kilindi was there; laughing as she bound her wounds and sometimes even helping him bind his own. Talking to him about things which she liked, when they were out on training exercises, huddled around a fire and eating food he caught and cooked for them over it, because Maul couldn't talk about things which _he_ liked.

If there were things he could even name.

He didn't know the name of the feeling when she drifted away again, into the ether of hazy sleep, except that it made him feel small. Something in his mind provided the word _lonely_ , but Maul didn't know, not really, not for sure. Knew it instead as a constant companion, walking in his shadow.

On the morning of the third day, the padawan came back.

"You look a lot better," he said, shifting his weight almost awkwardly. "I've come back to see you a few times, but you were always sleeping."

For some unfathomable reason, Maul felt like _apologizing_ ; he wasn't sure where that came from or why.

"I'm Obi-Wan," the boy said, holding out his hand to shake.

Maul looked at his hand for a long moment, feeling-- thin. Sere. Fragile, as if all of the foundations he had once stood on had crumbled away, leaving him in the air and waiting for gravity to assert itself on him. But then he carefully reached out and shook the boy's hand, uncertain how to feel about the gentle pressure of calloused fingers against his own. "Maul," he answered, taking his hand back.

The boy-- Obi-Wan probably had already heard that, but he nodded anyway, before sitting in the chair he had been occupying before, grinning a little bit. "Much better than our first meeting, I have to say. While I can't say I've ever been choked as a greeting before, I think it's not something I care to repeat."

Maul didn't remember it, quite; everything was jumbled up in his head. But the apology slipped out before he even had a chance to realize it was on his tongue.

"It's all right. It was memorable, and all given--" Obi-Wan gestured to the wing. "I can understand why. I'm just glad you're all right."

"As am I," another voice broke in, and they both looked up at the tall man with the long hair who stepped over. Obi-Wan gave a sheepish looking smile; Maul shrank back a little, wondering where his own nerve had fled to, unable to even pretend he had it right now.

The man didn't comment on it, though. Just took Maul in with what looked like a kind expression. "You're no longer required to stay here," he said, folding his hands into wide sleeves of his overtunic. "There are things that we'd like to talk with you about, and some healing you have left to do, but before we worry about any of that, you'll need a place to live."

The first thought that occurred was that he was about to be thrown into a cell; it probably reflected on his face, or perhaps in his traitorous wings, because the man tilted his head, voice softening. "I was hoping you would come and stay with Obi-Wan and I."

Maul didn't answer, not even sure how to respond to that, flicking a glance at the padawan, whose eyebrows were pegged up in an expression of-- something. Happiness or eagerness. He looked back at the man, unconsciously tucking his arms around himself, but he still wasn't able to force any words out.

"It's all right, to feel a little lost." The man sat on the edge of the bed opposite. "I'm Master Qui-Gon Jinn. Obviously, you've met my padawan. Master Che said that if you're more comfortable here, you're welcome to stay longer, but she agrees that you would likely recover better somewhere a little quieter than the Halls of Healing."

Maul had no clue what to do with the offer. But if he framed it in his mind as an _order_ , that made a little more sense. After a moment, he bobbed his head, opening his mouth to speak; it took two tries, but he finally said, "I don't have-- have anything with me. Except my clothes."

What was left of them, anyway.

"They saved your boots, but the rest of it was in too bad a shape. Still, I can send for something for you to wear from the Quartermaster, and in the meantime, what you're in will work for a couple of hours."

Maul looked down at the pale gray sleep pants he had ended up in at some point; soft and loose and comfortable. Not exactly the kind of thing to wear out, but where would he go? What was there for him, outside of these walls?

What was there for him _inside_  of these walls, but protection?

It was with those thoughts churning around the inside of his head that he got himself out of the bed he had spent however many days in, feeling chilled and uneasy. He listened as Master Che handed over the antibiotics he was supposed to take, and a datapad with exercises for his wounded wing; listened as Master Jinn asked a few questions, most of it related to nutrition. He was only distantly aware of having his arms still tucked around himself until he felt something brush past his good wing.

It was Obi-Wan, holding out his outer robe, which had two new cuts in it from hem up to shoulders. "You looked cold," he said, and reached out slowly and carefully, and after a few moments of stiff anxiety, Maul realized what was happening enough to help, feeling the fabric's weight between his wings and then on either side.

He got his arms into it and only barely managed to stop himself from huddling deeper into the fabric.

"Another robe, Obi-Wan? _Really?_ " Master Jinn asked, sounding exasperated, though not-- not angry.

"He was cold, Master. Besides, if you're already going to be sending for clothes, you can just add another to the list," Obi-Wan answered back, blithely.

There was another put-upon sigh, and the two fell to discussing the number of robes Obi-Wan had lost -- Obi-Wan claimed six, Jinn claimed twice that -- and somehow, Maul made his feet move to walk out with them, tucking his arms into the sleeves of the robe and casting only one glance back to the Halls on his way out the door.

Taking the first steps towards leaving his constant shadow-companion behind.


End file.
